Come Rowe the Boat

Come rowe the boat, rowe the boat,
Ply to the pibroch's note,
Steer for yon lonely cot
O'er the wild main ;
For there waits my dearie,
Both lonesome and eery,
And sorely she'll weary
To hear our bold strain.

Then rowe for her lover,
And play, boys, to move her,
The tide-stream is over,
And mild blows the gale.
I see her a-roaming
Like swan in the gloaming,
Or angel a-coming
Her Ronald to hail '

The deer of Ben-Aitley
Is comely and stately,
As tall and sedately
She looks o'er the dale ;
The sea-bird rides sprightly
O'er billows so lightly,
Or boldly and brightly
Floats high on the gale.

But O, my dear Mary,
What heart can compare thee
With aught in the valley,
The mountain, or tide?
All nature looks dreary
When thou art not near me,
But lovely and dearly
When thou'rt by my side.